Certified

Chapter One:

I didn’t have a serious girlfriend until much later in my adult journey. Louise was probably the nearest I had in those early years. She was a nurse at the Royal Free Hospital in London. We met when we were both eighteen and I was visiting an old school friend who had ended up living in Camden Town, putting up satellite dishes for a rather suspect company.

He lived in an apartment block that also housed one of the Bananarama girls, which was cool for a teenager, like me, from a Yorkshire village, whose only famous resident was Russell Harty. I am quite sure, looking back, that I was never in love with Louise, and vice versa. I think the attraction and longevity of this relationship, for me, boiled down to her being absolutely identical, in looks, to my footballing idol Peter Beardsley. Those of you who know who I mean will now be spitting out your relaxing beverage with incredulity and those that do not, make your favourite tipple, google him, and then spit…

It is amazing how memories start to flood back, and I realise I have already told you a fib. Russell Harty was not the only celebrity from our village. We also had Thelma Barlow who played Mavis for many years in Coronation Street. She was a warm, funny lady who embraced village life unlike the certain chat show host. I was fortunate to get to know her in my teenage years as I worked in the local hotel where she was a frequent visitor.

In those days, prior to meeting Peter (sorry, Louise!), I would hitch lifts via my trusty thumb to visit a girlfriend in the next village ten miles away. The girl in question was stunning, and a bit out of my league to be honest, and for some reason she never called me by my real name. I was always introduced to those she knew as Penfold. At the time, being named after Danger Mouse’s reluctant sidekick was quite endearing, but looking back now, she was obviously taking the proverbial.

Anyway, I was on the main road, frozen thumb in the air, waiting for someone to take pity on me, when a car stopped to pick me up. It was a small funky looking car, bright yellow, that stood out even in the gloom. I could just make out three passengers through the fading light. As the window wound down, Thelma's head popped out.

“Hello, where are you heading?” she asked, cheerily.

“Hi! I am just popping over to Ingleton to see my girlfriend, and I’m freezing!”

I figured the use of the word ‘girlfriend’, in conjunction with the cold, might help with any doubts with regards giving me a lift, knowing this pleasant teenager, she sort of knew, was prepared to stand in the icy chill, for however long it took, in the name of lust.

“Get in then, we will drop you off.”

I opened the rear door, thanked Thelma, and began to squeeze into the back. Suddenly the surreal nature of the situation became apparent.

“Come on Cocker, squeeze in,” shouted the booming voice of Julie Goodyear, who played the legendary landlady, Bet Lynch. She was safely entrenched in the driver’s seat, giant earrings swinging from side to side.

“Here you go duck, plenty of room now,” came a voice from the semi-darkness of the back seat where Betty Driver, famous for her fictional hot pots, was seated.

I found myself sharing a car journey with three of the most famous actresses of the time, chatting away for the next thirty minutes in a cramped Mini. I will not disclose our conversation as that would be a betrayal of trust (?!) but suffice to say it was a joyous interlude and we all got on very well. I remember telling them that the girl I was visiting called me Penfold. They were incredibly happy to give me their honest advice and support as we hurtled through the country roads. Let’s just say I never returned to visit her again.

My girlfriends were always younger and we never seemed to have enough in common. They liked Oasis; I liked The Beatles. They enjoyed tequila slammers; a nice Chardonnay if you please. They appreciated TFI Friday and I relished ‘Question Time’ on a Thursday. None of them liked dogs either apart from one and that was Susan. She followed my usual preference, so whilst she was playing ‘Don't Look Back in Anger’ at full throttle, I was engrossed in Eleanor Rigby. She loved a man’s best friend though and so it came to pass that we stumbled on renting a house together with my lovely brown retriever, Bonnie, in tow.

Susan was great fun, devoted, had a zest for life but on occasion could be very violent. I never talk about this period of my life. It hurts deeply if I access the memory and, with it, the feelings of humiliation, pain, and denial. It makes me feel extremely uncomfortable but as this book is a journey of the good, the bad and the ridiculous I feel strangely comfortable sharing it with you. The violence was rare but frightening when it occurred. One extreme example played out at Susan’s distant cousin’s 50th wedding anniversary. The celebration took place at a remote Country Hotel and was the usual cheesy buffet disco evening some of us are familiar with. A disc jockey mumbling into his microphone with incoherent sentences, the finger buffet that on closer inspection was mostly made up of numerous bowls of chips and, of course, the gin and tonic at £15 a shot.

“I only ordered a single.”

“I have only poured you a single, Sir.”

“Oh…”

The evening meandered along, and as we all stumbled towards the inevitable last orders, so the arrival of the contemporary classics galvanised our resident DJ with Agadoo, Superman and The Time Warp all taking centre stage, alongside dozens of happy senior citizens.

I am not sure what caused the brutality that ensued. I think it was related to an accusation that I had talked for too long with her female cousin, seventeen times removed. What I do remember is cowering in the corner of our hotel bedroom, curled up by the side of the bed, my hands and arms desperately trying to cover my face as the bedside lamp repeatedly thudded down on me, with a ferocity that was hard to comprehend. I thought being in the foetus position would protect me until I felt the moisture start to run down the side of my cheeks. At first, I imagined it was just frightened sweat from the situation but the realisation that it was blood, and lots of it, soon became apparent.

The aftermath always followed the same pattern and those that have been through it may identify with the following exchange.

“I am so, so sorry… I didn’t mean it… I don’t know why… I love you so much...”

“It’s okay, come on, sit down. You’re shaking, it’s fine. Everything will be alright. Come and lay here for a while. You will be nice and calm in a minute. I’m just going to pop into the bathroom and clean up a bit.”

That was that. Never to be spoken about again. Absolute denial from both of us as to what had just happened. I am sure those in the adjoining rooms must have heard the commotion. As Susan’s parents were in one of them, it is likely they were woken, blow by blow.

At Breakfast, the next morning, was rather awkward. Eight of us had arranged to meet and share a table, including her parents. So there we were, sat in the beautiful conservatory, the winter sun glistening through the glass panels, with perfectly formed lawns steaming and mixing with the light mist. Not a word was spoken as I delicately ate my bacon and eggs through a half-functioning mouth, with just the one eye available to see what was in front of me. I contemplated asking the waiter for a straw, but this would have required either jaw movement or sign language, neither of which I was able to perform. That breakfast table knew what had happened. No ifs, no buts. It was so obvious. Yet the discussion was all about the disappointing buffet, the prices of the drinks and why their individual song requests had not been actioned. I had this gut wrenching feeling that I was the only one sat around that table who felt any shame, remorse, and humiliation.

So it was that Susan, Bonnie and I moved into our rented semi-detached house, away from our home village. It was closer to the nearest city, offering better career prospects but the estate was very grey and run down. Deep down, I knew that this move was not going to make me happy, firstly due to the toxic nature of the relationship and secondly due to the area we were about to reside in. I convinced myself, as I loaded my life-size print of Marilyn Monroe into the van, that this was what I wanted. A partner to live with and share everything with. A dog and, maybe in time, a discussion with regards the shared joy of children together. You might be thinking, ‘Why on earth would he be doing this? This is madness!’ Trust me, those who have been in similar situations just do.

At the same time, I had just bagged myself a new sales job and it was here I met Dawn. She was a few years older than me and far more mature. She was given the unenvious role of teaching me the ropes. She did not like me. Not one iota. She soon made it abundantly clear that it was not to her advantage to teach me anything. She also found my vile, illfitting, green suit embarrassing. She wasn’t the only one, but it was all I had and gave us some common ground when chatting. I say chatting, more Dawn constantly ribbing me but with just a hint of criticism in every comment. I went along, laughing nervously at her jibes, in the hope that she would grow weary, and instead, start to enjoy my company and not mock my attire.

As the days went by, so Dawn’s ambivalent attitude began to thaw, and I liked her. Very much. She was feisty, didn’t suffer any fools, and had a sarcastic sense of humour that I adored. She was also a bloody good salesperson, extremely attractive with long auburn hair and huge brown eyes. I found her experience intoxicating and reassuring. Whilst she never did become a fan of David Dimbleby, she drank Chardonnay by the gallon, which was good enough for me.

The days became weeks, and we spent a vast amount of time together in the sales office and then inevitably, the social arena. We would go for a drink after work and then head home in separate directions. These would become more regular and last longer. Was that because I was falling for her and wanted to spend as much time as possible in her company? Or was it because it meant I didn’t have to go home, and as such, spend less time with Susan in our sad, tired home. Looking back, I am sure it was a combination of both, but the idea of being with Dawn took an incredible hold on me from an exceedingly early stage.

I had established that Dawn was single. I also knew she had never lived with anyone and liked her own space. That could be a bit of a hurdle to overcome but like most things she told me in our preliminary courtship, I ignored the parts that did not fit with my mental narrative. We started to have evenings out where she lived. I know what you are thinking. ‘How? What about Susan?’ The thing is, I did work late so it was easy to have a date with Dawn and not arouse suspicion. I would sometimes get home extremely late but that was the nature of my new job and I was out to impress. Dawn as it transpired, not my employers, who had become a bit of an afterthought.

Dawn was fully aware of Susan from the start. I never hid the fact that I lived with someone, but I certainly did conceal some of the painful elements of that relationship. The dates continued and I vividly remember the first time we kissed. It was in a wine bar in her hometown. A Thursday evening, I recall, relatively quiet, and it just happened. One moment we were laughing about my attire again and the next I had her face gently cupped in my hands as we locked lips for the first time. It was a revelation to me. It is hard to describe but it felt different. How an adult kiss should feel. Mature and comfortable.

I won’t go into the raunchy details of what happened next but if you are very lucky, I may do a sequel titled Fifty Shades of Dog Hair (?!). In the meantime, with your permission, I will jump a few months into the future when Dawn asked me to pack my things and go and live with her.

Chapter Two:

My initial plan was to tell Susan one evening. Possibly with a locked door between us. This required finding the right moment, to sit her down and confess. I contemplated purchasing some medieval armour in preparation. I also considered telling her in our driveway, with the passenger window down, car running, gear engaged. The problem was that there were a heck of a lot of evenings, never any right times (or so I convinced myself) and so my current world drifted aimlessly for a few weeks. Dawn would ask me every day and I would reassure her that it would be soon, but I could see she was getting frustrated. She probably thought I was having second thoughts, that I didn’t want to share my life with her, but then she didn’t know the whole truth. In all honesty, I was petrified. Damaged by horrific memories and terrified what this situation could trigger.

In the end I didn’t tell Susan anything. I just left. On a rare day off, I just packed a case and walked out. When I say case, it was actually just a rucksack. Some clothes to tide me by, my passport and a toothbrush. I left everything else. All my personal mementoes built up over many years with, and without, Susan. Family photos, music collection, even my beloved Marilyn Monroe. I was partly in the mindset that I was moving many miles away and this was the start of the rest of my life, and as such I wanted nothing to go with me. A clean slate, so to speak, but I was also in a state of panic that she might just walk in unexpectedly, so no risk was taken, and I was gone in under half an hour.

I rang Dawn to tell her I was on my way. On arrival at my new home, Dawn was there to greet me. The subsequent hug was hugely reassuring. I can’t explain the relief, and a tear gently trickled down my left cheek as my head rested on her shoulder. I have a feeling she thought it was a tear of joy and I was not about to disprove this or tell her the real reason for my emotional state. When we finally sat down, coffees in hand, the conversation flowed and I outlined what had happened, and that it was simply better this way.

“Right. Let’s go and get the rest of your stuff from the car.” Dawn jumped up, excited, and headed towards the front door.

I chuckled. “It won’t take you long then. I think there is an umbrella and probably a tennis ball in the boot, but that’s about all.” I lifted my rucksack and placed it on the dining table. “It’s all here. My whole life. Ta-da!” I thought it was funny but the expression on Dawn’s face was one of bewilderment.

“That’s it?! That’s ridiculous. Why? Please don’t tell me that the only thing in that bag is your bloody green suit?” She was laughing now but very much with astonishment.

“Firstly, the suit has not hitched a ride with me. Secondly, this is a fresh start for me… us… and I think the best thing we can do is get our own stuff together to make this OUR home. You have most of the same music as me, so that’s a start. I appreciate I have a slight shortage of clothes, but once I have unpacked this lot…”, she was still laughing and shaking her head, “I am heading to Matalan to go crazy and buy a whole new wardrobe. Fifty quid should cover it.”

We were both chuckling away, and I felt relaxed for the first time in months. It was Dawn who stopped smiling first, put her hand up to her mouth and lent rather unsteadily against the door frame.

“Oh my god, the tennis ball…Where’s Bonnie?” she asked. “What about Bonnie?”

There are, hopefully, not many times in a life when that knot in your stomach materialises. The overwhelming feeling of nausea. When I got the police phone call, with no other family member to hand, informing me that my grandma had died, was one. Or at the age of fourteen, when my High School sweetheart, Gillian, told me I was dumped with the unexpectedly mature words, ‘Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind’ was another. The ‘Where’s Bonnie?’ question was the latest, but probably deepest kink yet.